Chapter 1

By: ThalrixVyre

The steady hum of the jet's engines was the only soothing sound on an otherwise disastrous trip. Malory Archer sat back in her seat, swirling a half-empty glass of gin, wondering for the hundredth time why she had agreed to this mission in the first place. She blamed her son, Sterling, of course—his incompetence, his inability to handle even the simplest of assignments without somehow screwing things up beyond repair. But she had also underestimated just how insufferable Cheryl Tunt could be.

Malory shot a sideways glance at Cheryl, who was staring out the window, completely oblivious to the growing turbulence rocking the plane. Her wide, unblinking eyes fixed on the passing clouds, but her mind was undoubtedly somewhere else. Cheryl always seemed lost in some delusional fantasy, her moronic grin betraying the kind of idiocy Malory could barely tolerate.

It didn't help that Cheryl, heiress to the vast Tunt fortune, insisted on being called Cherlene these days, as if she were some sort of country music star. Malory resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the thought. The only thing more ridiculous than Cheryl's imaginary country music career was the fact that this woman had become increasingly fixated on getting choked—something Cheryl had brought up more than once on this very trip.

Just yesterday, Cheryl had dropped a casual comment about how "fun" it might be if someone were to strangle her during the mission briefing. Malory had nearly spat out her drink in disgust. It was impossible to have a normal conversation with Cheryl without her veering off into some bizarre, masochistic territory, but Malory had managed to brush it off. They were on a work trip, and Malory had hoped—prayed—that this would be a brief ordeal, something she could survive by drinking heavily and ignoring Cheryl as much as possible.

But as the plane hit another violent patch of turbulence, Malory felt her patience thinning, like the very fabric of the sky around them.

"Do you ever stop thinking about… I don't know, anything that isn't completely moronic?" Malory's voice sliced through the cabin, brittle and sharp. She adjusted her position in her seat, feeling the tension building in her shoulders.

Cheryl blinked slowly, as though processing the question took significant effort. Then, with a grin that could only be described as vacant, she replied, "Sometimes I think about strangulation. Or, you know, fire. Did you know that fire is like—"

"Jesus Christ," Malory muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I swear, if we crash, it'll be a mercy if I don't have to listen to one more word come out of your idiot mouth."

The turbulence grew worse, rattling the small plane. Malory could feel the cabin shudder as the captain's voice crackled through the intercom, though she paid little attention. The pilot was probably announcing something inconsequential—after all, turbulence was a minor inconvenience at worst. But as the rattling intensified, a new thought began to take root in the back of Malory's mind: What if it wasn't?

Suddenly, there was a loud bang from the engine, and the plane lurched violently to one side. Drinks and personal belongings flew from trays, and Cheryl, who had been loosely strapped into her seat, was thrown forward with a loud shriek.

"Hold on, you idiot!" Malory snapped, gripping the arms of her seat as the plane nosedived sharply. The cabin lights flickered, and an eerie silence followed the sounds of panic. The jet descended faster than Malory could comprehend, the pressure in her chest tightening with each passing second.

Cheryl, eyes wide and filled with an almost manic glee, yelled something about "death being like riding a bull," but Malory's brain was too focused on survival to make sense of Cheryl's words. Instead, she braced herself, every instinct from years in espionage and black-ops missions kicking into gear. There was no time for panic.

"Cheryl!" Malory barked as the plane shuddered again, a gut-wrenching sound of metal tearing filling the cabin. "Put on your damn oxygen mask!"

Cheryl, of course, looked confused—her usual expression when given simple instructions. Malory felt a flash of irritation but reached over, yanking the mask down for Cheryl, whose face lit up as if Malory had just given her a gift.

"Does this mean you care about me?" Cheryl asked, her voice muffled behind the mask. "You've never given me anything before."

"Shut up and breathe," Malory growled, cursing herself for not choosing a more competent companion for this mission. Hell, she'd have even taken Cyril over Cheryl, if only to avoid the incessant lunacy.

As the plane continued to plummet, the world outside the window turned into a blur of gray clouds and flashes of blue ocean below. For a brief moment, Malory considered her options—if they crashed, survival would depend on quick thinking and even quicker reflexes. But with Cheryl at her side, those chances felt as slim as ever.

The impact came quicker than Malory anticipated. A deafening roar filled the cabin as the plane hit the water, tearing through the surface like a bullet. Malory was flung against her seatbelt, the force knocking the wind out of her. Cheryl's wild laughter echoed in the chaos, a jarring contrast to the violence of the crash.

When the world finally stopped spinning, Malory opened her eyes, blinking through the haze. The plane was half-submerged, the cabin tilting at a precarious angle as water began to seep in through the cracks. For a brief, terrifying moment, Malory thought she might drown before even having the chance to get off the damn plane.

Cheryl, meanwhile, had unbuckled her seatbelt and was stumbling around the cabin, her mask still hanging loosely from her face. "That was—wow! Can we do it again?"

Malory let out a groan, her head pounding from the impact. She could feel the cold water pooling around her feet, and her survival instincts kicked in once more. "Cheryl, grab your bag and get out. Now."

"But—"

"Now!"

With a frustrated sigh, Cheryl grabbed her bag, looking for all the world like she was heading off to some ill-conceived vacation rather than a life-or-death situation. Malory fought the urge to throttle her—though, in Cheryl's case, that would probably be met with enthusiasm.

The plane creaked ominously as the water level rose, and Malory knew they didn't have much time. She yanked open the emergency door, the cold, salty air hitting her like a slap in the face. The ocean stretched out before them, vast and unforgiving, and somewhere in the distance, a small, jagged island broke the horizon.

Just my luck, Malory thought bitterly. Stranded on an island with Cheryl Tunt. I'd rather swim to shore covered in blood than deal with her nonsense.

Cheryl, however, was already halfway out of the plane, her excitement palpable. "Oh my God! This is just like that one time I pretended to get kidnapped, except now I don't have to pay anyone to choke me!"

Malory climbed out after her, the frigid water soaking her legs. She grabbed Cheryl by the arm, her patience wearing thinner by the second. "If you don't get a hold of yourself, I swear, I will leave you here to drown."

Cheryl, predictably, grinned. "That's so hot when you say stuff like that, Ms. Archer."

Malory clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to toss Cheryl into the ocean just to see if she could swim. Survival was already going to be hard enough without having to babysit an idiot who seemed to think life-or-death situations were some kind of foreplay.

They waded through the waist-high water toward a piece of floating wreckage, which Malory swiftly commandeered as a makeshift raft. Cheryl, for once, managed to follow along without falling behind or making things worse. The water was frigid, and Malory's muscles ached with the effort of keeping herself and Cheryl afloat, but the island loomed closer with every stroke. She kept her eyes locked on the jagged shoreline, knowing that the moment they hit land, a whole new set of challenges would begin.

"Do you think there are like… wild animals here?" Cheryl asked, paddling with one hand and clinging to Malory's makeshift raft with the other. "Like jaguars or wolves? Or—ooh, maybe something really dangerous, like a bear with rabies?"

Malory didn't answer. She was too busy scanning the shore for a decent landing spot, somewhere they wouldn't immediately be swept away by the current or dashed against the rocks. Cheryl's inane chatter continued unabated, but Malory tuned it out, her mind focused on survival.

As they neared the beach, the waves grew stronger, pushing the wreckage closer to shore. Malory made a quick calculation—if they timed it right, they could use the momentum of the waves to propel them onto the beach, avoiding the rocks altogether.

"Cheryl, on my count, kick with everything you've got. We need to hit that sand fast, or we're both dead. Got it?"

Cheryl gave her a thumbs-up, though her face was glowing with the kind of excitement Malory only ever saw in lunatics or thrill-seekers. "Got it, boss! Kick real hard. I'm, like, amazing at that!"

Malory closed her eyes for a brief second, wondering if this was what her life had come to—being stranded with the dumbest, most reckless woman she'd ever met. But there was no time for lamenting her fate. She barked the order. "One, two, three—kick!"

The wave lifted the wreckage, and they surged forward. For a brief moment, the raft held steady, riding the crest of the wave toward the beach. Malory felt the rush of adrenaline as they were propelled forward, the shore rushing up to meet them. Cheryl was shrieking with joy—or terror, Malory couldn't quite tell—but it didn't matter. The plan was working.

They hit the sand with a hard thud, the raft scraping against the shore as the wave retreated. Malory scrambled to her feet, dragging herself onto dry land and taking in the sight of the deserted island. Cheryl, of course, collapsed in a heap beside her, giggling as if they'd just finished some kind of joyride.

"This is gonna be, like, the best thing ever!" Cheryl exclaimed, rolling over onto her back to stare up at the sky. "Stranded on an island, just the two of us. It's like one of those survival shows, except way sexier. You're, like, the mean host that yells at the contestants, and I'm the one that gets choked during the challenges."

Malory stared down at her, the throbbing pulse of a headache already starting to form behind her eyes. She had survived wars, black ops missions, and raising a son as reckless and incompetent as Sterling Archer—but this? This might be the thing that finally broke her.

"We're not on some reality TV show, you idiot," Malory snapped, shaking water from her coat. "We're stranded. That means no food, no water, no shelter. And, unless you've miraculously become less of an idiot in the last five minutes, you're going to be absolutely useless."

Cheryl sat up, her wet hair plastered to her face, but still wearing that stupid, manic grin. "Don't be so negative, Ms. Archer! I can totally help. I read this book once about how to survive in the wilderness. It was mostly about setting traps and drinking your own pee, but I'm sure some of it was useful."

"Setting traps and drinking your—" Malory stopped herself before she could finish the sentence. There was no point. This was Cheryl they were talking about. She would probably end up accidentally setting herself on fire while trying to build a shelter.

"Just… stay out of the way," Malory ordered, her voice hard and authoritative. She pushed past Cheryl and began scanning the beach for anything useful. Wreckage from the plane was scattered across the shoreline, but most of it was useless—broken bits of metal and debris that wouldn't help them build shelter or start a fire. The real problem, though, was water. Without fresh water, they wouldn't last more than a few days, and Malory had no intention of dying on this godforsaken island.

Cheryl, of course, was following her like a lost puppy, her wet clothes dripping onto the sand with every step. "So what's the plan, boss lady? Are we gonna make, like, a treehouse or something? I've always wanted to live in a treehouse. It's like a tiny house, but up in the air and probably filled with bugs and—"

"We're going to find water," Malory interrupted, her voice tight with frustration. "Then we'll figure out shelter. Unless you have some brilliant plan to summon a rescue team out of thin air, we're stuck here until someone finds us. So unless you want to die of dehydration in the next few days, shut up and help me look."

Cheryl's grin faltered for a moment, but only for a second. "Right, right. Water. Totally got it. I'm great at finding water. My family's super rich, so we've always had water. We even have this, like, giant fountain thing at the mansion, and one time I fell in, and it was—"

"Cheryl!" Malory barked, her patience finally snapping. "Stop. Talking. And look."

Cheryl blinked, her wide eyes momentarily focused as if she was actually processing the command. She nodded solemnly, as though she had just been given a sacred mission. "Okay. Looking for water. Got it. Like a bloodhound. Woof!"

Malory groaned and turned away, heading toward the tree line where the island's dense jungle began. She knew it was going to be a long and miserable ordeal, but what choice did she have? If she didn't take control, they'd both be dead within a week. Cheryl might be content to ramble on about fountains and treehouses, but Malory had lived too long and fought too hard to die on some forgotten island with a lunatic who thought strangulation was a valid life goal.

The jungle loomed ahead, thick and impenetrable. It would take hours, maybe days, to explore properly, but Malory knew they had to start somewhere. She glanced over her shoulder at Cheryl, who was already stumbling after her, tripping over her own feet as she tried to keep up. Malory sighed. This was going to be hell.

But hell was something Malory Archer knew how to survive.

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